It Begins Again

Last night, my mother wanted to go out to supper since I was leaving the country for the duration of my Christmas break. She wanted to get Mexican. ¨I´m going to Mexico tomorrow for three weeks and you want to take me for Mexican? Really?¨ Dutiful son that I am, I obliged.

I now sit here in a hostel in Mexico City, preparing to go out among the natives. The thought of getting kidnapped or mugged has weighed heavily on my mind since I first decided to come here. The State Department´s travel advisory did not help at all when it mentions that kidnappings have now gone from solely occurring to the wealthy tourists and businessmen and has broadened to include the middle class. Sensing a challenge, I determined to make myself look less than middle class, a difficult thing to do for a southern man who´s had braces (when in foreign countries, teeth tell you a lot about a person). I packed what I affectionately term my ¨hobo gear.¨ I did not shave for three weeks prior to leaving. Now, this may not seem that out of the ordinary to any who remember my various previous wanderings, but the difference is that this time I have not groomed my pathetic attempt at facial hair at all. I´m currently sporting a sad attempt at a goatee, surrounded by varying outposts of mangy whisps of multicolored whiskers. I look, to the best of my estimation, like a vagrant. Mission accomplished.

Having only a broad plan (to see Aztec and Maya ¨stuff¨), I packed the absolute basics of underwear, socks, two pairs of pants (one 15 year old pair of black jeans, one pair of camouflage pants), two pairs of shorts, a pair of swim trunks, five hawaiian shirts, a poncho, an Inka Cola T-shirt, a pair of sandals, a pair of sneakers, a fleece jacket, a knife, and about 7 books (to include a spanish-english dictionary and a college spanish textbook). No sooner had I got to the hostel than I changed into the shorts and sandals (it´s well over 70 degrees here right now).

The flight was delightfully uneventful, but inprocessing at the Mexico City Airport was a trifle disconcerting as I discovered that I´d left my Lonely Planet guidebook on my bed this morning and that I had to report my knife, a ´cuchillo´, to customs. Visions of a strip search in a language I barely understand flashed through my mind, but the customs lady was far from impressed with my daring to bring a pocketknife to Mexico and sent me on my way. One terrifying taxi ride to the historic center of town later (50mph weaving through traffic in a 95 Nissan Sentra), and here I go.

If I´m not back by January 11th, send in the Marines.